Errata

Okay, so technically they’re a physical manifestation of your ability to manipulate gravity, but it took you months to perfect the shape to mimic a raptors. You’ll call them whatever you fucking please. 

What most villains, and a lot of heroes, forget is that most museums put windows in their bathrooms to avoid that grim public transportation hub vibe. Which makes entering without tipping off an adversary easier than, say, crashing through a skylight. So you slip in, emerging in the east wing of the museum with no one the wiser. 

You make it to the “gems of the medieval world” exhibit be you pick up any movement; improved vision is one of the upsides of your “accident.”

Staying in the shadows, you take in the banners outside the exhibit. The ones announcing the presence of the world-famous “Peacock Diamond.”

Wait, Peacock…

“Seriously, Penguin?” You mutter. 

“Deeply so, my dear.”

You see him in the doorway just as ropes pop from the walls to ensnare you. The snap of several others in the distance tells you he was determined to trap you. 

“You’re not one to go rushing in. I figure this will teach you a valuable lesson in not skulking about.” He must have goons with him; he’s in his long coat and fedora as well as his tux. He never does that if he expects to do his own fighting.

“How’d you know it’d be me?”

“Because you can never resist a visit with me.” He smiles at you, teeth the tiniest bit sharp.

“Because you keep picking heist locations in areas you know I patrol.” You bat your lashes, “almost like you want a beautiful woman with anger issues to kick your ass. You know you can just pay people for that, right?”

“Such crass language.” He saunters toward you, eyeing you up from your boots to your mask, “and last time it was your behind that took the brunt of an attack.”

“Real polite way of saying you hit me with that fucking umbrella several times.”

He tuts, stroking your cheek as you glare at him, “You deserved it for the bruises you left on my stomach with these” the umbrella draws down your leg and taps your boot. 

“Uh boss, we’re-” the newest henchman stops when he sees the two of you, “do you need us to get her out of here? River’s right there-”

“Just get the car started, uncultured clod.” He snarls, watching the man like a hawk until he’s scurried out of sight. Then he turns back to you with a smile that means mischief, not business, “why put yourself in the path of such brutes, hm? Why not retire while you’ve still got a life to live-”

“Not this again-”

He bends down, nose nearly brushing yours. You heard him refer to it as “a fine, Roman nose” once. Pompous bastard. 

“Why not let a refined and worthy bird build you a nest? I could forgive all you’ve subjected me to if you’d let me make you sing-”

Rather than let him notice you blushing, you dart your head forward and bite the end of his nose. His affronted yelp of pain is worth taking the umbrella to the ribs and hearing his voice go cold as he wishes you a good night and tells you the cleaning crew should come in ten hours to untie. 

Once he’s out of view, you trigger the claws on your gloves, making short work of the rope. Did he really think this would hold you?

You roll your shoulders and crack your neck; you hope he took the limo. It’ll be fun to drop through that roof to get the diamond back. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

The best part of working in the Gotham Zoo is that the route from the staff gate takes you right past the elephant pen. And there’s nothing cuter at 8:30 on Thursday than a baby elephant trying to make sense of new concepts like “rain” and “the frog that hopped in through the fence.”

Reaching your desk, you find a little box, wrapped in black and white paper. Your heart moves through an interpretive dance you’ve given up on understanding as you open it. 

A dainty brooch in the shape of a barn owl is waiting for you, along with a note that simply reads, “dinner and a show tonight?”

Technically, not even staff should wander the exhibits this late. But you’ve stayed at work until ten pm to finish this speech that the zoo director wants to give to the funders. That earns you some time watching your favorite residents. 

“Hello, my beauties. Did you get lots of sun today?”

The pair of California Condors regard you long enough to see if you have food, then return their attention to preening. They’ll probably sleep soon. You should, too, but right now it’s nicer to watch them in the scant light and summer air. 

You don’t register anything wrong until the door to the aviary opens. A normal person wouldn’t be able to hear it from this distance, but you can. Just like you hear a voice, one that was insulting you two days ago for chaining him to a lamp post, admonishing someone.

“...in there, they have their own exhibit.”

You hide behind the trashcan. When the door opens, you wish you had your gloves on you, or literally any weapon. If it comes to a physical fight you still like your odds, but your secret identity will be toast. 

“Alright gentleman, I’ll deploy the sleeping gas, then it’s two men per bird.” The Penguin coos, “it’s alright my friends, we’re going to take you somewhere far nicer.”

Is he fucking serious? 

You’re so indignant on their behalf it overrides everything else.

“Is your “somewhere far nicer” climate controlled? And this size?” You stand, crossing your arms, “will you be bringing in a vet on this scam when they get sick?”

The Penguin frowns, cocking his head, “And who would you be, my dear?”

“I’m head of the education department. Which is why I can tell you there are fewer than 600 of these in the wild, and that each of these birds was hand-reared from a chick to be part of species preservation breeding program” You notice two of the henchmen getting closer, only for the Penguin to hold out an arm, stopping them.

“Anything else you wish to lecture me on?” 

“Who’s going to care for them? Even if you treat them like pets, do you have a care plan in place if you get, y’know, arrested? Again?”

“Well-”

“Do you really want to end up responsible for something so incredible dying? Just because you wanted it all for yourself?” You glance at the birds, one of whom is now asleep, then back at him “you have a lot of money right? You could come and see them any time you wanted.”

You don’t mean for your voice to go so soft. The Penguin does something odd in reply; he smiles. It’s not the cruel smile you saw when you met him as the Shrike. It’s charmed and charming, and you have a sinking feeling you want to see it again. 

The condors stay put. 

You run your fingers over the brooch. If you put it on, when you leave work today there will be a car waiting to take you on a date. It’s a different gift each time, but the code has been consistent since your second meeting. 

“I’m moving to fucking Omaha.” You cower with three other presenters behind the speakers table. And here you’d been so pleased that the Peregrinators Club was willing to have you present in spite of the unforgivable sin of being a woman. One of three invited to speak, in fact.

The Penguin announces he is there to relieve the club of several rare bird taxidermies. You can’t bring yourself to be mad about it; not like that many people get to see them in here.

“Now, that leaves me with one more thing to collect.” He turns casually about on the stage, “which one of you charming ladies would be so kind as to accompany me for the evening?”

“Fuck no.” The woman next to you shakes her head, “ew.”

That part confuses you; the Penguin isn’t small, in fact you’d call him handsomely fat. His nose is a bit beaked and crooked (you’d bent it yourself two days ago by headbutting him). To be honest, you haven’t paid much attention to how his face makes you feel. The smell is more familiar; hints of cigar smoke and some kind of cologne, clothes that have been dry cleaned and starched. 

The other woman has her hands over her head like she’s in a duck and cover drill. 

You sigh and stand. The Penguin grins when he notices, “Excellent. Come along, my dove, don’t be shy.”

He escorts you to a limo, taking your hand as you sit next to him, “I was rather hoping you’d volunteer. If not, I was going to do it for you.” He pats your hand as you narrow your eyes, “the taxidermy was a nice bonus, not the specimen that I was truly after.”

“Watch it.” You pull your hand back, wary, “how do I know this isn’t just payback for the condors?”

His smile is brittle, “Not the glass half full kind, I see.”

“That’s not an answer.” You’re trying to sound unsure and afraid instead of annoyed. He seems like the kind of man that works on. 

He rests his hands between his legs, posture sagging, “I wanted to see you again. I’ve been thinking of you ever since the zoo. I feel we may be...birds of a feather. Abduction means you won’t be mistaken for an accomplice.”

An amused smile creeps across your face, “You kidnapped me to hear more bird facts?”

“Not solely.” He gingerly takes your hand and you give it willingly, “permit me an evening to make my case for companionship, starting with dinner. Name the place you wish to dine and we’ll go.”

“Is the Red Rose Lounge really as good as everyone says?”

He grins, “Let’s find out.”

It was the nicest evening you’d had since moving to Gotham. Oz (you called him that in case he recognized how you said his last name or villain title. He beamed when you did) hung on your every word, and had more than a few stories of his own to share. He had wine  but didn’t push you to share it, and your palates aligned shockingly well.  By the end of the night, you were giddy enough to kiss his cheek. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a man look so surprised. Or delighted. 

You made him promise to come up with a way of asking you out that didn’t involve kidnapping. You found the box with the vulture-shaped stud earrings on your desk two days later, with a note telling you to put them on if you wanted to see him that night. 

You pin the owl brooch into the lap of your sweater and start in on your to-do list. It’s not yet winter break, so the zoo is slow, and no one is clamoring to schedule educational events or visits so late in the year. You end up completing an updated script for the bird show until it’s time to go. 

Oz is waiting for you in a black, vintage Cadillac. You’ve ended up on the hood of it several times as the Shrike; this is the first time you get to enjoy the interior. 

“Hi, Oz.” You lean in and kiss his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you accepted my invitation, my dove.”

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

“Our favorite haunt for dinner. Then to the Aladdin theater for a Hitchcock double-feature.”

“What are they showing besides The Birds?”

“Your favorite; Rear Window.”

“Oooh, I can’t wait to see it on the big screen.” 

The waiter at Heron and Reed is expecting you, and your usual small booth in the back corner is mercifully near the fireplace. 

Oz clicks his tongue as he clasps his hands over yours on the black tablecloth, “you’re chilled. Here, take my coat-”

“Oz, I’m okay. I just run cold.”

He undoes his pin-striped scarf and loops it over your shoulders, “At least take this.” 

“Even if it blocks the view?” You tuck it into your sweater, savoring the warmth carried from his skin to yours and covering any hint of cleavage. 

“Chivalry requires sacrifice.” He re-takes your hand, keeps his thigh in place when yours bumps it. He orders the usual; blackened salmon for him, wild mushroom pot pie for you. It’s not an exaggeration to say you dream about the stuff. 

Not that it’s the main thing you dream about. 

No, that honor goes to the man beside you. In spite of never seeing him in less than three layers of clothing you’re certain that naked, he’s a sight to behold. You know what it feels to like to cuddle up to him (or get the jump on him), but your brain eagerly offers up theories of what it would be like to be in his lap, or beneath him in bed, how he’d sound as he fucked you, what he’d say as he buried himself in you.

The first time you had one of those dreams after a fight instead of a date, it worried you. You considered refusing any future dates, then cracked after ten days without seeing him. For now, you’ve made your peace with it; Batman is always hooking up with Catwoman and she’s not exactly law-abiding. 

Besides, you’re pretty sure dating Oz does more to deter his criminal behavior than thwarting him does. He’s out with you at least once a week, you know for a fact he picks all your gifts in-person which must mean a lot of shopping, and more than once you’ve spotted him at the zoo, watching the condors.

(He also confessed last month, after a bottle of Chardonnay, that he’s lost more than one afternoon to, “laying on my bed and daydreaming of ways to woo you”).

By the time you’re done with dinner and seated in the theater, personal space is a faraway concept. You raise the armrest and nestle against him. A soft, odd coo leaves his throat as he wraps his arm around you. As the lights dim, you’re once again faced by the question that’s been hammering in your head for weeks. 

Why hasn’t he made a move? He hasn’t even kissed you. It’s been six months!

Meanwhile, any time the Shrike hunts down the Penguin he seems ten seconds from ripping your costume off and fucking you over the nearest flat surface. He nibbled your ear when taunting you two weeks ago, for fucks sake. 

“My dove?”

His voice pulls you back into the theater.

“Sorry, my mind wandered.” You toy with the scarf as you smile at him, “I’m so cozy and full from dinner, little worried I might fall asleep on you.”

“The faux pas will be safe with me.” He kisses the top of your head as the lights dim. 

Halfway through The Birds, you’re reminded of yet more reasons to move to Omaha. 

Killer Croc barrels through the screen, one of the Bat family in hot pursuit. The wiring sparks as they fight, and all too soon the sprinkler system kicks on, soaking you before Oz can get his umbrella open. 

“That scale-brained troglodyte” Oz growls as the two of you make for the car in the freezing wind, “I’ll skin him the next time he shows his face. Then make him into a handbag I can gift you in apology for this disastrous evening.”

“N-no” you shiver as Oz opens the car door and shoos you in, “no need to skin anyone on my behalf. Just” another shiver, “get me somewhere warm, please.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

Oz is an aggressive driver. An upside of this is you reach your destination in outer Gotham remarkably fast given traffic. 

“My humble abode.” Oz bows, opening the door of a shiny apartment building, “well, I suppose the base of it. Come along.”

The elevator deposits you at the penthouse door.

“The penguin door knocker is a nice touch.” 

“I thought you might appreciate it.” Oz guides you inside, taking your soaked coat and hanging it next to his on the hooks by the door. You follow him deeper into the apartment; it’s the color scheme you expected, black and white with metallic accents, but instead of sleek or modern furniture, the chairs and sofas look built for comfort. 

Oz flicks a switch on the wall of the living room and a fireplace blazes to life, “I promise to give you a full tour another time. The first order of business tonight is a hot bath, to address both the chill and the tension from our interrupted evening. I’ll have it ready in a moment” His hand lingers on your cheek even as he turns for a darkened doorway.

You give him points for creativity; getting you nice and relaxed in the tub before making his move is more interesting than just insisting you take your clothes off to avoid catching cold. 

When he calls for you to join him, you expect to find him already in the tub. Instead he’s still fully clothed, one hand dipping into the water of an immense Jacuzzi tub that’s at risk of overflowing with bubbles. 

“You’re not joining me?” Your fingers hesitate on the hem of your blouse. 

“No. Although I’d very much like it if you permitted me to keep you company from out here.”

“Be my guest.” You start undressing, curious about what he’ll do. The answer is: examine the ceiling until he hears you enter the water. 

You moan happily and he quickly drags a small chair in from the other room and sits so he’s facing you. Some small part of you still braces for him to tell you that your wet clothes mean you’ll have to spend the rest of the night naked. Or that he wants you to slip your hand between your thighs and give him a show. 

A much larger part of you wants to suggest it yourself. 

But you talk like you always do as the room fills with orange blossom steam. Until you idly lift your leg from the suds to stretch and Oz’s train of thought loses its track mid-description of a boyhood trip to the botanical gardens. 

His gaze follows the water down your leg. You take your time lowering it as you say, “Can’t remember the last time I took a bubble bath.” 

“I find they’re a must after a long day.”  

You shift in the water so that your arms rest on the edge of the tub nearest him. You’re pretty sure the bubbles hide the swell of your ass. You’re also well past caring if he sees. 

“When I was a kid I’d try to make a tower out of the bubbles. I think my little-kid logic told me I could reach the shower head if I stacked them high enough.” You mound a handful of suds on top of another. 

Oz moves from his chair to kneel on the floor, pushing up his sleeves and sweeping a hand through the bubbles. It’s awkward, so unlike his usual dapper bearing, that you can’t help but smile. 

“Were you happy as a child?” He draws a circle in the foam.  He’s never asked about that part of your life. You assume it’s to keep the conversation from steering into his own past. 

“Yeah. I mean, my parents weren’t perfect, but they love me.” You hazard being honest, “the next time they visit, you should meet us for dinner.” 

“I would like that.” He rests his hand on your arm. His sleeves aren’t up quite high enough and a damp spot forms on the white fabric. 

Before you can ask what else he’d like, he pats your skin, “I have a few things to attend to. I’ve left you a towel for when you’re through, my pretty peacock.”

You linger a few minutes more, then wrap yourself in the large, fluffy black towel. 

“I hope you’re not planning to make me take a cab in just this?” You tease as you wander back toward the fireplace.

“Never.” Oz walks into view with a garment bag on a hanger, “I intended this to be a gift for a future date, but needs must.”

You unzip the bag. Waiting inside is a sweater dress, black with swirls of white sequins forming a snowstorm at the bottom. 

“It’s so soft.”

“Cashmere. Here, here,  try it on.” He eagerly hands the bag to you, once again regarding the ceiling until you say it’s safe to look. 

“Can you do this last button on the back?”

“Of course, my pet.” 

He doesn’t step away once he’s through. When you turn to face him, you’re practically chest to chest.

“It’s wonderful, Oz. Thank you.” You gingerly set your hands on his chest and place a single, innocent kiss on his lips. His face moves from surprised to delighted, then lands on something you can’t parse. You don’t want to rush him, so you lower your hands to gently hold his. 

Oz looks down, then lifts your hands to his lips and kisses each in turn before meeting your eyes, “I think it’s best if you head home. This storm is only getting worse, and I’d never forgive myself if you ended up in a wreck because you dawdled with me.”

It wrong-foots you so completely that you say “of course” without pausing to argue. You spend the cab ride home regretting this decision, and the time you spend getting ready for bed sorting through reasons why Oz made it. 

The best you come up with is this: Oz prides himself on being calculating and classy. Maybe you jumped the gun, while he’s waiting to create the perfect evening to confess his feelings. The thought is so adorable it lessens the sting of rejection. 

It also makes you slightly less annoyed when, two nights later, you feel a figure behind you during a stake out. 

“Has my little bird finally come home to roost?” 

You reach back with your right hand and set it on his belly, claws out. 

“Stay there, Cobblepot. And don’t flatter yourself; the Iceberg Lounge just happens to be the best vantage spot for this.”

“You’re on my private balcony. One might call that trespassing.” The very tip of the umbrella slowly drags up the back of your right thigh. 

“One might. One might also want to stay the hell out of my way if he wants his liver in one piece.” You keep your eyes on the street below, “I’ve been on these five for months. Members of the fucking vice squad.”

“A noble profession.” He muses dryly. 

You snicker, bitter, “These ones like to assault the kids they’re ‘saving’ from turning tricks before taking them in. Since most end up locked up anyway for their ‘protection’ these fuckers have easy access to them to do it again. Gordon probably knows and is trying to nail them on it, but I’m sick of waiting.”

Voices from a half-open door on the street. You brace, ready to jump, breaking contact with Oz in the process. 

“Careful, my bloodthirsty beauty. I’d hate to see you in a cage.”

“That’s a lie and we both know it.” 

He’s much closer now, one hand resting on your waist as he whispers, “You’re right. I’d keep you nice and warm in a golden one, if I could.”

You make the mistake of turning your head to look at him. His eyes glitter in the city lights and for a moment you forget who you are. 

Oz makes his move in that moment, grips your chin and kisses you hard. You don’t embrace him, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away and lose the taste of him. You do manage to bite his lip as he pulls back, but the heat fueling the movement isn’t anger. 

He touches the bruise on his lip, “I won’t wait forever, my dear.”

You think about bubbles, about cashmere on your skin and hesitance in his eyes. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” You wink before jumping out into the cold, waiting air.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

So help you god, if Oz doesn’t make a move tonight, you’re going to talk to Batman about giving you a course remedial investigation skills. 

It’s December 23rd. Oz knows you’re not doing anything for Christmas. His invitation tonight was to his penthouse for a “candle-lit dinner for two.” He suggested you pack spare clothes, “just in case the weather is too frightful to travel and it's safer to stay in our cozy nest.” 

If all that doesn’t add up to, “please spend the next several days under me in bed” you don’t know what does. 

You arrive in the dress he gave you, complete with a lacy surprise underneath. There’s a bounce in his step as he takes your coat and as he guides you to the dining room. There are only two chairs, one at the head and one at its right, a bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket, and glasses that are genuine crystal. 

“I’m nearly done setting the mood. Let me just fetch the centerpiece and then we can begin the courses in earnest.” He pulls out one of the chairs and you sit with a smile.

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.” 

“I’ve anticipated tonight with an eagerness I cannot fully convey. I want it to be perfect. Here, my dove, take a look at this charming plant I found for the table.” 

He passes you a small pot. The plant within it resembles a bird of paradise on psychedelics, greens and purples on the leaves giving way to a pink flower with pollen so yellow it hurts your eyes. 

Your brain puts all the features together into an identification. That’s when interest gives way to alarm; this is Cupids Arrow. A plant that produces what can be best described as “sex pollen.” You’ve read up on the effects and they’re nothing to sneeze at. 

Maybe Oz really doesn’t know. Maybe he’s not trying to trick you into getting so horny you beg the nearest warm body for relief. 

“It has a fascinating scent. I can’t place what it reminds me of, can you?”

Motherfucker. 

You put the pot on the table and push yourself out of the chair like it’s on fire, “You have five fucking seconds to explain yourself.”

“My dove-”

“No, don’t even try it, not after trying to give me the worlds strongest aphrodisiac and lying to me about it!”

“I only meant to– that is, darling, you must understand that you’re in no danger-”

“Right, yeah, sure, this is exactly the kind of stunt safe men pull.” You’re already moving for the front door, “night, Oz. Been nice knowing you.”

A frantic “wait” darts out the door as you close it. You don’t stop. 

Is that why he wouldn't kiss you back before? It’s no fun for him if you offer yourself happily, only if you’re tricked into it and helpless to resist? 

You thought he cared about you. 

That you were birds of a feather. 

By the time you’re home, all you can do is lay face-down on your bed while anger and hurt jockey for control inside you. 

You want to know why he did it. You want to get him back for it. 

(You want to continue the night as planned, kiss him until he’s breathless and you’re desperate, see how handsome he looks naked in the firelight).

Getting an answer out of him, let alone payback, while still wanting him so intensely it hurts, feels impossible for you. 

For the Shrike, however…..

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At 8:06 pm, Christmas Eve, you set your plan in motion. 

You slip a remote-controlled micro-dart through the keyhole of the penthouse and steer it from outside until you find your target. The thud five seconds after it makes contact with Oz’s neck tells you it’s all clear. 

You’re glad for the enhanced strength from the accident; you’re not small, but Oz still outweighs you. Your powers mean you’re not just dragging him like a sack of soil  from the living room into his bedroom.

You prop him up in the cushy, black chair by his desk and get to work. His jacket, tie, and vest come off first. You debate removing his burgundy, silk dress shirt too, but the way it stretches over his belly makes you purr. You leave it be for now. 

Next come the pants. The black boxers underneath aren’t a surprise, although you chuckle when you see they’re designer. Your Oz; classy to last stitch. 

Your initial plan was to use the rope you brought to tie him up. Then you spot a spool of thick, red ribbon on his dresser. He’s been wrapping presents. 

Perfect.

You tie his arms, hand atop elbow, behind him. Secure a loop around either thigh to keep them open, then string those strands back and knot them to his wrists. 

He comes-to just as you finish collaring his neck with the red satin, tying it off in a nice, neat bow. 

“Finally deemed my bower worthy of a visit, little bird?” He smiles

“You could say that.” You step back. He tries to follow you, reach for you, and notices his predicament. 

His face changes instantly and he snarls, “Release me at once.”

You shake your head with a smile. 

“One of my men is bound to notice if I don’t give orders for a while. And when they find and untie me I am going to wring your pretty little neck!”

“No, you’re not. For starters, your entire staff has the next two days off” when he blinks, confused, you tilt your head at his phone, “you sit by the window when checking your emails. Or entering your passwords. And I have very good eyesight.”

Oz narrows his eyes, “What do you want?”

“Currently I’m just enjoying the view.” You slide your gaze from his chest to his thighs, with a long pause at his crotch, then back up again. 

He squirms, turning his head and trying to tuck in on himself. When the ribbons prevent it, he sucks his stomach in, “You mean you’re enjoying humiliating me.”

“I said what I said, Cobblepot. Speaking of humiliation…” you lift the Cupids Arrow from the windowsill, keeping it a safe distance from your face, “a little bird told me this plant has some very interesting effects.” 

Oz freezes, brown eyes wide and pleading, “Please don’t, whatever point you’re making you’ve made it, I’ll give you anything you want, information, money, anything to keep that plant over there.”

You cock your head, “Why should I? I know of at least one woman you’ve tried it on.” venom floods your voice, “how many others did you use it on before her?”

“Only her! I’m not a monster!”

“Debatable overall but at the moment I agree, seeing as you’re rather helpless. I think I prefer you this way.”

 You gather pollen into your hand and smear it across his nose and mouth. He’s moaning before your glove even leaves his skin. As you peel off your gloves and set them aside, you watch his cock tent his boxers, the wet spot near-instantaneous. 

“Now, what to do…” 

“Leave me be, you’ve humiliated me enough-” he moans helplessly as you hook a finger under the collar.

“Really,? You want me to just leave you like this?” You brace your free hand on the back of the chair, graze the other down his chest. You don’t even have to touch his cock through his boxers; just the heat of your palm being close to it makes him buck at the air and whine. 

“Aw, Oz, do you like me?”

“No.” He grits his teeth, then groans as you let his cock grind against your hand, “and you have, have no right to address me so informally, ohgod” 

You press your hand more firmly against his cock, “Jesus, is this why you kept the plant around? Because you need help getting enough blood heading south to fill this fucking beast out?”

“It wasn’t for me and you know it.”

“Then why do you have it?”

He looks at you, pupils dilated and expression pathetic, “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Fine. I’ll say it for you. You wanted someone to be desperate for you.” You straighten and he pouts at the loss of your touch, “why use an aphrodisiac instead of just asking her? You’ve never had any issues flirting with me.”

“That’s different. We’re enemies, my buxom butcherbird-”

You laugh and he does his best to glare at you. 

“Don’t mock me, every turn of phrase is an effort when I’m in this state.” He keeps his eyes defiantly on yours, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Some of us need all the help we can get wooing our mates.”

Genuine insecurity flashes across his face. For as frustrated as you are with him, that’s all it takes for your affection to claw its way(temporarily) to the surface. 

Your voice softens as you say, “You should really pay less attention to what the tabloids say. Or your ‘co-workers’ for that matter. You have your charms, Oz.” You scritch under his chin and his eyes flutter closed. 

“Such sweet torment.” He sighs, keeping his chin tilted up, smiling as the touches continue.

“Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me what you planned to do with the person you tried to use the plant on. As long as you do, I’ll help relieve you, uh, predicament” you set your hand against his clothed cock “you stop, I stop, we clear?”

“I was never going to harm her!” To his credit, he looks horrified at the thought. But that’s not what you asked.

You pull your hand away, “I also stop if you dodge the question.”

“No!” He gasps, pushing his hips forward, “no please, you must believe me. I wanted to make her feel good. To show her why she should choose me. I, I wanted to kiss her…”

“No one uses a plant like that to get a fucking kiss.” You place your hand back, Oz rutting against it like his life depends on it. 

“I, I wanted to take her to bed. To undress her and map her body with my hands, make love to her, hear her beg for my touch, my cock, for me. Bring her pleasure in whatever way she asked until she agreed to be mine, to stay” his next words catch, more sob than anything else, “my dove, ahhn, she’d have been wrapped around my finger as tightly as I am hers.”

“None of that explains why you tried to drug her instead of just asking her. Frankly, you’re far more convincing like this.” You kiss his nose and he shudders happily. When you peck him on the lips, it turns to him inelegantly mouthing at your cheek and jaw as he cums with a groan. 

His cock is still hard in your palm as he pants, “Am I convincing enough for you to end this charade?”

“Why should I? I'm enjoying myself. Not to mention if I let you go now you'll be waddling around Gotham with a hard-on that can be seen from space.”

The silk shirt is soaked in sweat. He rests his head against the back of the chair, eyes squeezed shut, “You’re merciless, my songbird.”

You kneel between his thighs, flick the knife from the side of your boot and gingerly slice one leg of the boxers, then the other. Pulling the tatters apart reveals a deliciously thick cock, pre-cum sporadically dripping from the head as Oz mindlessly rolls his hips against the air. 

“Gorgeous.” You murmur. 

“Don’t patronize me-” He jolts hard enough to move the chair as you flick your tongue over the head of his cock. 

“Right, patronizing.” You lick a stripe down to the root, kiss his left ball for the fun of it, “that’s definitely what I’m doing here.” You kiss his inner thigh, certain you’re learning what heaven is like. 

“You are amusing yourself by seeing me in a ruined state. And showing a cruelty I did not think you capable of.”

“Oh?” You look up to find his expression painfully crestfallen. 

“You’re pretending you want this for what it is. Want me for what I am.”

All the heat and excitement boiling in you hardens in a heartbeat and sinks into your stomach.

“You really thought I’d reject you at dinner.” You set your hand on his belly and feel him inhale, “I thought I had ‘please fuck me’ written in neon above my head…”

He looks at you, and as you watch the gears turn behind those coffee-brown eyes, you grip your mask and say, “Please don’t make me regret this.”

You set the black mask on the rug, Oz staring as you do. He’s still staring, face implacable, when you look up again. 

“Is…is this a deal breaker?” You gesture to your suit, “if you don’t want me anymore I get it-”

“No! I mean yes! I mean” Oz shakes his head with a frustrated grunt, “untie me this instant!”

You cross your arms, “So you can throttle me?”

“So I can spend the rest of the night in your arms instead of trussed up like a turkey!”

You grin, “I could untie you. Or…” you trail a fingernail under the ribbon on his left thigh, “you could be patient for me just a liiiitle longer.” You look up through your lashes, “won’t you let me really savor unwrapping my present?” 

Oz smiles back, “Why should I?”

You activate the invisible zip on the top of your suit, drawing it down to the base of your cleavage, “Pretty please?”

“My devious little dove, however am I supposed to say no to that?” He rolls his hips more pointedly, “come finish what you started.”

You let a squeal of delight escape up your throat as you dive back in. His cock feels perfect in your mouth, like he was made to fit you. If the weight of him gliding along your tongue is an indicator, it’s going to feel amazing when he finally presses into your cunt. 

If your mouth is eager, then your hands are greedy. They grope for every inch of him you can get, play with his balls and grip his thighs like they’re shiny new toys for you and you alone. Oz moans and gasps with every touch. When you pull off his cock to kiss his belly, he whines your name. 

When you bite down, he simply squawks. The sound makes you laugh and, to your relief, he laughs too as you rest your cheek on his stomach and look up at him. 

“Sensitive, baby?”

“It’s been a, a AH!” he laughs as you pepper his stomach with kisses, one hand on his waist and the other pumping his cock, “a long time since anyone saw under my clothes, let alone touched there.”

“That’s a shame.” You drag a kiss up to his pecs, “there’s so much to love.”

“Darling…” he moans as you lap at one nipple and run your thumb over the other, “oh you’re going to be the death of me.”

“I hope not. Kind of getting attached.” You continue nipping and kissing at his chest as his thrusts into your fist turn frantic, “that’s it, baby, all the way, you can cum, I wanna hear you-”

“Fuck!” He drops his head, resting his lips against your hair as cum spatters up your suit all the way to your chest. 

“Such language” you coo.

“You bring it out in me.” He pants, fighting to catch his breath as you straddle his lap. 

“If I undo these, will you be a good boy and clean up the mess?”

He nods and you reach around the chair to cut the ribbons. The instant they snap, he embraces you, one hand in your hair while an arm loops around your waist. He kisses playfully down your neck, moves the material of the suit aside with his teeth to kiss and lick the droplets from your skin. 

“Ah!” You giggle at the sensation, hold his head with both hands and nuzzle his brow, “Oz. You don’t need that plant, you’re amazINGoh” you smile as he releases your ear from his teeth. When he kisses you, this time you relax into his arms, kissing back with six months worth of pent up affection. 

“I asked Ms. Isley for it specifically so I…I knew I had a chance with you. I want you so terribly and I knew that if you gave me a chance I could show you it was worth being close to me.”

“Oz, sweetheart, I wore my sexy underwear that night. I was 100% hoping to fuck you.”

“I see that now.” He takes your hands from his shoulders to hold them, “can you forgive me? I let troublesome thoughts cloud my judgement. I ought to have been brave enough to risk rejection, for your sake.”

You squeeze his hands, “I’m sorry too. I don’t get a lot of chances to be mean in my line of work. Think I got overzealous.”

“I’ll forgive it if you promise to let me bind your pretty wings some evening.”

“Done.” You kiss his nose, then nip the end of it, “never try to drug me again.”

“Done.” He runs his hands hungrily along your sides, “did you really wear lingerie last night?”

“Yep. Black and white lace, bought with you in mind.” His cock presses against your thigh, “that perks you up, hm?”

“My dear, that state re-started ten seconds after I made such a mess of you. And it will no doubt continue for some time.”

You rest a hand to his forehead, “Jesus, Oz, you’re burning up. How long does the pollen last?”

“Twelve hours.” He growls, scooping you into a bridal carry as he stands. 

“You were planning to fuck me for twelve hours last night??”

“Yes. With mechanical assistance if necessary. I’m not one to arouse a ladies desire and then leave her wanting. No matter the length of the task.” He lays you down on the bed, “are you going to be good and grant me the same attention?”

You fully unzip your top and toss it aside, then start on your boots and pants. He takes that for the assent it is, pulling his shirt free and dropping it in a hamper. When he reaches for the ribbon around his neck, you shake your head. 

“I like it on you. It’s cute.”

The blush on his face deepens. He hovers by the edge of the bed, “Do we need anything to, ah, prevent an unexpected visit from the stork?”

“No. The incident that turned me into the Shrike gave me a fucking chemical hysterectomy in the process.” You rest your head on the pillows and spread your legs, “all the same, you should come over here and let your mate take care of you. Since you brought her to such a nice nest.”

He climbs on the bed only to hesitate again, “Are you sure about this position? I don’t want to crush you.”

“Trust me, I can handle it.” You flash him a smile, “I like my men big. And if I didn’t want to see you naked, I wouldn’t have undressed for you. Now come here and do what you’ve clearly been imagining doing for months.”

Oz is on you with a playful growl. He hurriedly presses his cock into you and you moan.

“My, my, you really were enjoying having me at your mercy. You’re beautifully wet.”

“Uhmhm” you hook your legs around his, “Oz.”

“Right here, my darling.” He shifts so you're face to face, kissing his way down one cheek. 

You hook your finger under the ribbon and tug him into a proper kiss. 

“Mm, just what every girl wants under the tree. A handsome, charming man all for her.”

He coos bashfully and you kiss him again. His thrusts are hard, almost demanding, but his pace is slow and his words are sweet. 

“My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.” He gives a sharper thrust and you moan in reply. Oz braces on one arm so he can use his other hand to play with your tits. 

“You've a rapturous form my dear, my angel” he squeezes the left side possessively, “I cannot wait to dress it in silk and fur.”

“Not feathers?” You tease, pushing his dark hair from his forehead.

“We shall see. Currently” his hips speed up, “I don’t want to see you in a scrap of clothing until new years.”

“Gonna keep me warm in the meantime?”

“My dove, you’ll be lucky if I move from inside you, let alone atop you.”

“Perfect. Oh, oh” you buck your hips against him, “Oz, right there” the shape of him means your clit rubs against his body as he fucks you, and you feel your orgasm tightening your muscles. 

“That’s it my darling.” His hand moves from your chest to your hip, pinning you so all you can do is take him as deep and hard as he pleases, “that’s it, take everything I give, take all of me, oh, ohgod” his hips speed up and you yelp, “such lovely cries, do you think you’ll still have a voice by morning?”

You whimper, shaking your head, and only manage to gasp his name before your orgasm tears through you. Oz hooks one arm under your lower back and the other beneath your arm to grip your shoulder, fucks into you so roughly you kick at the sheets as you moan. When he cums he buries his face into your neck, panting your name as he spills into you. 

“Jesus.” You hold him, stroking his back fondly, “fuck, Oz, you’re amazing. You’re so hot and amazing.” You laugh, “and apparently you fucked the rest of my vocabulary out of me.”

He chuckles, raising his head to kiss you sweetly. You have to tense the smallest bit to notice he’s still hard. 

“Shall we see what I can accomplish after another round?”

You kiss his cheek, beaming, “Go for it.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A bell somewhere in Gotham informs you it’s now ten on Christmas morning. You lift your head from Oz’s chest to confirm, then nestle right back down in his arms. 

“You’ve presents, you know” he points an elbow in the direction of the living room. 

“Dang it. I left mine for you at my place. I can-”

His frame is wide enough that you almost miss the four “employees” behind him in the hallway. Dark glasses cover his eyes–you’ve heard rumors about an explosion in one of his venues–and his suit is a deep grey, long coat swaying as he steps toward you. 

“Good afternoon, my dear.” He doffs his fedora. The movement would be polite were it not for the glance he casts up your body.

“Afternoon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet. I’m aiming for Friday, if you all would like to come back then.”

Octavius walks past you, dropping his hat on your desk and leaning back against it to study you, “I’m not here for a show. I’m here to talk business.”

“By which you mean how much of a cut you want from my box office?”

A tight-lipped, insincere smile, “Exactly. Ten percent of whatever you make goes to me.”

Fuck, you’ll barely scrape by at that rate. You’ve already run the numbers.

“Six.”

He raises a brow, amused, “It’s not usually a negotiation, sweetheart.”

You bristle at his tone, “keep calling me that and I'll go down to four.”

He pushes off from the desk. You flinch but hold your ground, “My folks ran a movie house back home. I know what my monthly take’ll be, times being what they are. You shake me down for ten percent, you’ll have an empty theater and zero money from it in four months.”

Octavius is close enough that you feel his body heat as his aftershave tickles your nose. When he holds out his hand you flinch again and he laughs. 

“No need to be jumpy. I never discipline a first offense. Seven is my final offer.”

“Done.” You put your hand out and try not to think about how it practically disappears when he shakes it. 

“I’ll send someone around at the end of each month to collect.” He pulls you closer by your wrist, “have your books ready for a peek. Think I’ll need to keep an eye on you.” His thumb and forefinger grip your chin, “don’t try anything smart. This face will only get you out of so much with me.”

You step back, severing the touch, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first month you're open, Octavius sends a heavy to come pick up his protection money. On month two, you’re sorting the reels in storage when a body blocks the light from the hallway. 

“What did I say about cooking your books?”

Your stomach twists, but you turn with a calm smile, “What makes you think I am?”

“The envelope you left for me on your desk. That’s not seven percent of-”

“It is when plenty of people are pinching pennies and don’t want to pay for the films I’m able to show.” 

He furrows his brow, “What’s wrong with them?”

You sigh, “Nothing, but most of the theaters in the city show the same films. It’s hard to compete, and hard to build variety if you don’t have any cash to spare. This place even came with these” you tap the older reels, “they’re pre-code, they’d be a real draw. Until someone on the city council got wind.”

“Leave them to me.” He smiles. You give him a business-like one in return. 

“Thanks, Mr. Octavius. If they’re not breathing down my neck I can maybe show a few pictures out of Germany or France, too.”

“A woman of culture, I see.”

“Don’t patronize me. Please.” You barely remember to add that last word, and your tone is flat.

“I’d never talk down to you, little ray of sunshine” He’s much closer now, his eyes dangerously charming.

You snicker, “That’s a new one.”

“Really? I’m surprised; your decoration isn’t subtle.” He gestures a black-gloved hand toward the lobby, with its murals of bright skies over deserts and light fixtures curved like rising suns. 

You shrug, “I didn’t choose it. The previous owner must have been into the Egyptian craze. Sun gods and all that. It could really use a touch up. I might be able to pay for one if I made, say, seven percent more a month.”

That same, tight smile, “Nice try, spitfire.” He’s fully blocking your ability to leave the room, to do any of the million tasks needed to keep the Sundance running. 

“Look, we’re done here, will you let me-” You cut off with a gasp as your back hits the wall.

“You don’t give the orders. Understood?” His finger jabs into your chest, and all you can think of is what else those hands could do to you. How easily your blouse would rip under them, how much of your throat they could grip, how roughly they could pull your hair as he gave you orders-

Now is not the time for that. 

You fix him with a withering look, “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He punctuates the words by brushing his finger briefly over your cheek, “You’ll be showing those older movies in a week.” Octavius moves to the door, then smirks back at you, “save me a seat.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------

You show The Mummy first; there’s some old ballyhoo in storage along with the film, meaning it’s easier to draw guests in from the street. You sell out the whole weekend.

When you’re running the projector Saturday night, you peer down and see Octavius in the very center of the back row. He glances up, sees you, and crooks to fingers, indicating you should come down. 

You shake your head, pointing at the projector. He nods, understanding, and gives you a little salute. 

The next weekend, you’re loading Frankestein into place, brushing dust off your slacks, when your foot catches the power cord. You bend to fix it, facing the doorway, straighten to find Octavius watching you. He doesn’t bother looking away from where your white blouse has popped a button; the damn thing never stays closed across your chest, which is why you only wear it on days when you’ll be hidden away up here. 

“Quite the show.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” You roll up your sleeves, continue prepping for the next showing. 

“You’ve got great taste, sunshine.” He removes a cigar from his coat pocket, “if Rosie was around I’d be bringing her here every week to catch the imported stuff. Probably appreciate it more than I do.”

When he pulls the matchbook, you reach out and pluck it from his fingers without thinking. 

“No smoking in my projector room.”

The cigar is still in his mouth when he quirks a brow at you. 

“Half of the stuff here will go up in smoke if you so much as say ‘fire.”

He tucks the cigar away, “Good point.”

You set the matchbook in his waiting palm, “C’mon, you were a science professor once upon a time right? You have to remember chemistry; nitrate plus too much heat equals a lost investment.” 

Octavius chuckles a little, coming to stand at your elbow as you finish aligning the reel, “How’d you know that?”

“I read the papers. When I started shopping around for a theater, I read everything I could find about who controlled the areas I was looking in.”

“Pragmatic.”

“I try.” You smile, pleased at the compliment. Feel the expression go shyer than you mean when he meets your eyes over his glasses. There’s a softness in his gaze, the lines and curves of his face becoming all the more striking in the low light of the booth.

“Is that why you keep showing movies about mad scientists? To get under my skin?” He teases. 

“Is it working?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to catch a few more, see how I feel.” He steps away from you, sits in one of the chairs against the wall of the room, “Think I’ll see how the show looks from this angel tonight.”

His gaze rolls over you again, but it feels different this time. Like he’s trying to see rather than just look. So you let him, turning back to the projector as the room below begins to fill so he can enjoy the view. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavius becomes a fixture in your projection room. At first you assume it’s because that’s the last place someone will look for a mob boss, so he can relax. But when you ask the kid who shares projection duties with you if Octavius ever sits in he shakes his head, confused

Your next hypothesis is that he’s hoping you’ll put out. Except he never moves beyond banter and hungry looks, no matter how empty the theater below you is. The closest he ever got was patting his lap, musing that you looked so tired, kitten, how about curling up here to keep warm. 

You jokingly hissed at him and he laughed. You thought about taking him up on the offer the rest of the night. And for at least two nights after that. 

All of that is to say that when Octavius doesn't appear for a whole week, you’re worried something happened. You check the papers every day, bracing for a headline about how The Octopus was found in pieces, or how some joke about how not even he can swim with cement shoes. 

August nights in this city are miserable, and living above the theater means being in the direct line of the rising heat. Which is why you’re still awake at 11pm on a Tuesday, urging the breeze from your bedroom down the front of your white slip. 

A bang from the window in the front room startles you. Your mood is not improved when you hurry in and find a large figure slumped against your wall. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Jesus! Fuck, Octavius you scared the hell out of me. Oh Christ, is that blood?”

“Nothing escapes you, sunshine.” Red drips hit the hardwood as he leers at you, “gonna faint on me?”

“No, but you will if you don’t sit down.” You haul him to the sofa and he lets you, his legs barely supporting him long enough to make the short distance. 

He’s so pale. When you push his jacket away, blood staining your hand, you see why. His white dress shirt is so wet it oozes when you try peeling the fabric away to see the wound.

“We need to get this off.” You begin unbuttoning his shirt. 

He chuckles, woozy, “Gonna let me make some time?”

“I need this open so I can clean up the blood and stop the flow.” You carefully peel the shirt away from his sweat and blood soaked skin. Your stomach roils at the copper smell and the fact there’s a literal hole in his side. That means the bullet passed through and didn’t hit anything important. You think. 

“Y’know” his head lolls to one side, glasses slipping down his nose as you ease him onto his back, “M’a married man. Was a married man. My Rosie…”

You let him talk, it’ll keep him awake, “I’m going to get some hot water. Stay. Still.”

You fill a dish with water, grab every towel you have, and grab the alcohol you use to treat cuts from your bathroom cabinet. Kneeling by the couch, you carefully dab at the wound; once it’s covered you’ll call for help, there’s no way he’s getting out of this without stitches, but all that’ll be moot if he fucking bleeds out in your apartment first. 

He’s still babbling, something about the sun in his hands, when you press the alcohol to torn skin. He snarls in pain and contorts, grabbing your hair at the root.

“Ow, ow, Otto please that hurts-”

“Hurts? Hurts?! You think this hurts? You don’t know the first goddamn thing about hurt!”

He’s pulling you closer, blood and cologne flood your nose and tears prick your eyes from how roughly he’s yanking your hair. 

“Please” you say again, with all the calm you can manage, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to help.”

“My Rosie…it hurts so much” his growl gives way to a sob, grip loosening enough for you to pull your head free. 

“I know. I know.” You touch his cheek with your left hand as you keep cleaning the injury with your right. He grits his teeth, tears rolling down to his chin, and presses his face into your touch. He doesn’t open his eyes until the bandages are in place and the bleeding has stopped. 

When he looks at you his expression is the gentlest it’s been all night, “You don’t have to look so worried, sunshine. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”

I don’t want it to be

You shake the thought away, “That’s all well and good, but I am not having a mob boss dying in my apartment.”

“Not like anyone will think you did it.” He frowns as you stand, “Don’t go. Please come back” he tears up the longer he looks at you, “your dress, your lovely dress.”

You look down. Your slip is so wet with blood and water it may as well be painted on.

“It’s just a nightgown. I can replace it.”

His fingers catch the hem, “The blood on it, it’s like…like when she…”

He nearly topples you when he clutches the fabric, shoving his face against it as he sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You know he’s not addressing you.  

It’d be safest to push him away, tell him to get a hold of himself. That weeping into your skirt won’t bring Rosie back, no more than keeping this neighborhood in a choke hold will. 

You bend, carefully unpeeling his fingers from the slip so you can kneel. Pushing his hair from his face, you see it’s now smeared with blood. 

“Shhh, shhh” you soothe, “it’s okay, Otto. It hurts but it’ll be okay.”

He whimpers, weakly rubs his cheek into your hand. You smile at the tickle of his stubble, keep up a string of comforting words until his breathing evens out and he slumps further into the cushions.

Once he’s asleep you pick up the phone, dialing the number for what he refers to as his “campus location.”

“Octavius office. This is Larry.”

Thank god, that’s one of his main heavies. You explain the situation. The henchman doesn’t sound surprised that Octavius ended up in your apartment and he promises to send someone over right away. 

After hanging up, you fill a bowl with fresh, warm water and settle on the floor by Octavius. Gingerly, you remove his glasses and begin cleaning the remaining blood from his face. The shape of his lips, and lines of his nose, every facet of him begs to be admired. You wonder how long Rosie was able to hold out before kissing him; you’re not sure you’d have made it more than a day. 

Brown eyes flutter open and a large hand catches your cheek. Then he’s kissing you, softly but oh-so-insistently. You return it, too startled to be anything but honest, until the hand slides from your face into your hair to urge you onto the couch. 

You pull back, scramble to your feet “I’m not your wife, Octavius.”

“I know.” He blinks, woozy and confused, “so?”

“So don’t kiss me.” 

Don’t make me think this means anything. Don’t make me think you really see me

With some effort, he sits up, “I won’t do it again, I swear. Please stay.”

“Of course I’ll stay. You’re in my apartment.”

He nods, eyes a thousand miles away, and pats the (non-bloody) spot next to him. Your self-control only extends so far.

As soon as you sit, he rests against you. He’s so big, so warm, even with the heat you can’t think of anything nicer than curling up with him some quiet night. But you can’t simply close your eyes and pretend; the smell of blood is too strong. 

So you rub his arm comfortingly, set your other hand on his thigh only for him to gather it in his own. He stares at it for a beat, then raises it to his face, cradling it there as his lips move. 

When the quiet words croon out, they’re barely a melody. It takes you a moment to place what he’s singing. 

“My sunshine, my only sunshine…”

A small tug is all it takes to get your head resting on his chest. 

“You make me happy, when skies are grey.”

He interrupts the song with a short, pained hiss as he shifts to put both arms around you. 

“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you…”

You’re practically in his lap, letting him kiss your knuckles as he half-mumbles the song against them, “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

For one, beautiful breath, you believe it. Then reality digs its claws into your chest.

“Otto, don’t.”

“You never called me that until tonight. I like when you do.” He’s still kissing your hand, “don’t what?”

Tears burn the corners of your eyes, “Don’t, don’t sing to me or kiss me or act like I’m anything other than one more piece on the chess board.” You jerk your head toward the window and the city beyond. 

“You are. You’re so much more.”

“I’m not. You come to my theater, watch a movie, flirt with me a little if you’re bored. That’s what we are to each other; a distraction.”

You meet his eyes; they’re back to the same level of pained as when you found him bleeding out. 

“You’re wrong. Let me take you to dinner and I’ll prove it.”

He probably won’t remember any of this come morning.

The knock from the side door of the theater saves you from having to answer him right away. 

“My rides here” He murmurs, moving his arms from you at the speed of molasses. 

How long has it been since someone wanted to stay?

You manage a tiny, playful smile, “If you’re still alive tomorrow, give me a call.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

A week and a half later, you’re counting out the money in the ticket booth before opening when the stem of a half-dozen roses slips through the opening. 

“Hey, sunshine.” Otto smiles at you from under the brim of his hat. 

“Glad you’re in one piece. And thanks for sending Flo by to let me know you were out of the woods. I was worried.” You step out of the booth, “are they red because they’re an apology for bleeding on my floor?”

He picks the bouquet up, offering it to you, “I promised you a night out. I intend to do it right.”

Your cheeks match the petals, “I didn’t think you meant it.” 

“Every word.” His smile brightens when you take the flowers, “Pick you up at eight?”

“Gonna make it worth my while to scramble to get someone to cover me tonight?” You bat your lashes. 

Otto steps closer, hands behind his back but chest almost touching yours, “More like I’m gonna make up for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

You kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you at eight.”

—------------------------------------------------------------

The dark green dress is modest in hemline and nothing else; it stops below your knees, but the fabric hugs your curves and the pearl buttons can be undone to your belly button. You leave the top three open and watch Otto's gaze flick to the fourth as you come down the stairs. 

“I’m lucky you don’t wear that to work, sunshine; be a line of guys down the block to muscle past just to see you.” He loops his arm around your lower back.

“Looking pretty sharp yourself.”

The restaurant is close enough to walk, and you catch Otto up on the goings on around the theater as you do. As the sign for the Sirens Lounge comes into view, Otto loops his arm through yours. 

“I’m sorry.”

“In general or for something specific?” 

“Bleeding on you, blubbering like a helpless kid, getting fresh” he swallows, bashful, “singing.”

“That part I didn’t mind. You have a lovely voice.”

“You should hear it when I’m not half-dead. Rosie used to tease me, I’d always sing along with the songs when we danced.”

You laugh, delighted, as he holds the lounge door for you, “Lucky girl.”

A nice thing about being on the arm of the Octopus is that no one rushes you through dinner. You and Otto spend two hours getting closer by candlelight. The booth is in the far back corner, may as well be walled off from how little attention he pays to anything but you; by the time you’re feeding him chocolate cake from your fork, you’re practically in his lap and he pants like a dog any time you kiss his cheek. You’re dying to drag him home by his tie, unbutton his shirt and chase the trail of chest hair peeking out with your kisses. 

Your nerves still pick up when he summons the car and takes you back to his place. You’d bet the deed to the Sundance that he wants you in bed. You want to be there, too. There’s just the small matter of not being ready to risk getting knocked up by someone with so many enemies. 

The first thing that wrongfoots you is the apartment itself. You’re fully expecting intimidating luxury. The space Otto guides you into is paneled with warm wood, the furniture comfy and well-loved, the shelves lined with books and the odd piece of art. It feels inviting, homey, and Otto is clearly proud of it as he gives you a little tour. 

Your two return to the living room, Otto sitting on the deep green couch, arms and legs in a contented sprawl. 

“Dim the lights, sunshine. That switch.”

You do as he asks, turn back to find him with his glasses off and a wolfish expression. 

“Is this where you tell me to get on my knees?”

“Is that what you want?”

You think, then shake your head. 

“C’mere a minute.” He extends his hand and you take it, straddling his lap when he coaxes you down, “What do you want, sunshine?”

“I want you, Otto. I’m not ashamed to say it, but I’m scared of what might happen if you fuck me full-on and I’m so wound up I’m desperate for some way to get off that doesn’t involve this” you drop one hand to ghost over his fly, “and doesn’t leave you out to dry.”

He groans, smiling at you, “My pragmatist. Always thinking ahead.” He loops his left arm around your lower back, caresses your face with his right hand, “there’s all kinds of things we can do. My mouth’s good for more than just sweet talking, and my hands…” he chuckles when you turn your face to kiss his palm, “I know you like them. Think you like how big they are.”

You laugh as he gropes your tits through your dress. The firm, possessive touches make you moan, “Is it that obvious?”

“You watch them. Used to be out of fear, but now…” the hand drags down the front of your dress, “bet it’s because you’re thinking about what I can do with them. Right?”

“As rain.” You nestle your face in his neck, nuzzle his cheek and feel him smile. 

He lifts the hem of your dress, “May I?”

“Please” you sigh as he slides his hand under the fabric and up your thigh. 

“Oh” he growls, “you weren’t kidding, you have been thinking about this all night. Almost soaking out of these” he snaps the band of your underwear “and onto my pants.”

You purr as he lazily strokes you through the black fabric, “I’ll pay the dry cleaning.”

“No chance. Been dying to feel you lose control, my pragmatist. Plus it’s nice to know you were getting hot at dinner along with me.” He kisses your brow, muttering against it, “thank god for long table cloths.”

You kiss his neck, tease your fingers along his covered cock, “Mmm, that’s very flattering. You could have any girl in this city but you’re getting harder than steel for little old me.”

“I don’t want just any girl. I want you.”

“Charmer.”

“It’s true” he presses more firmly against your folds, “think I’ve wanted you from the moment you tried bargaining down your protection percentage.”

“What do you mean ‘tried?” You nip his ear and he moans, “I did bargain you down.”

He smiles and kisses you. It’s so much better than before, because he’s all here, seeing you and not a ghost from his past. You lick the memories of champagne from between his lips, wrap your arms around his shoulders and dig your fingers against the muscles of his back. 

“Tell me what you want.” You murmur when he lets you breathe. 

“Oh, sunshine….” he coos, collecting his thoughts, “I wanna corner you in the projection room, cover your mouth and fuck you while the picture runs, leave you with the taste of leather on your tongue and my cum dripping down your thighs. I want to take you to bed” he jerks his head down the hall, “spend all night under covers, remind myself what it feels like to be a living man instead of a walking corpse.” 

You moan, fumble your hand down to join his and shove your underwear to the side. 

He takes the hint.

“Ah! Ohfuck, what, what else do you want?”

“This.” He curls the two, thick fingers inside you and you yelp in pleasure, the sound making him grin “that, too. You’re beautiful like this, oh, oh hello girls.” He growls as you finish unbuttoning the top of your dress. 

You giggle as he presses his face to your tits, kissing them hungrily as his fingers draw slick, filthy sounds from between your legs. It’s divine, having all his attention on you. You wrap your arms around his back again, resting one hand in his hair, and hold on tight. 

Your thighs shake, a tell that you’re close. You’d be in heaven riding it out on his fingers. But a glance at where his cock is seriously straining his zipper gives you a better idea. 

“Otto?”

He lifts his head. Your chest is shiny from his kisses, and he looks like he’d jump of the Empire State Building if you asked. 

“Put your arms around me.”

“You sure?” He obeys in spite of the question, “Don’t have to stop for my sake, I’d keep doing that until my hands fall off.”

“That’d be a shame. I only like them because they’re attached to you.” You adjust, lower yourself down to grind against his cock, moaning at the size as you rub against the trapped shaft, “same with this.”

“Fuck! Fuck,” he tips his head back with a laugh, “thank you, sunshine, fuck, the day you let me fuck that cute little pussy I’m a goner, won’t wanna do anything else.”

“Hmm, that’s too bad, since I have to run the theater. You’ll have to control yourself.” You run a nail down his neck. 

He tips his head forward, kissing you messily, “I could do that. Or I could start demanding your protection pay in the form of this.” He gropes your ass with both hands, forcing you into a faster pace, “make you bounce in my lip or let me ruin your lipstick once a day, keep my head under your skirt while you’re trying to do your books. Oh you like that, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Uh huh, fuck, Otto”

“That’s it, sunshine, that’s it. All the way. Gonna make you feel like this every day, because you’re my girl and my girl deserves the best.”

You hide your face against him as you cum. He rubs small, gentle circles on your back as you shudder.

“Am I really your girl?” You look up and find him smiling hopefully. 

“If you’ll have me.”

“Of course.” You peck his lips, “although right now, think it’s more a matter of you having me.”

You only get halfway through rolling your sensitive folds against him when a hand clamps down on either hip.

“Good point.” He ruts demandingly up against you, “that’s it, c’mon, c’mon-”

“Ah! Holy god you’re strong.” You laugh as you try to wiggle in his lap and find you can’t. 

“Want me to hold you down sometime?”

“Desperately.” You kiss him as his hips jerk and his breath catches. When he cums it’s with a satisfied groan. Better still is how he holds you to him afterwards, like a man searching the dark for something lost and cherished that he’s finally found. 

“Otto? Cozy as this is, I think we better clean up.”

He nods, “Come take a bath with me. Promise I’ll only get a little handsy.”

“Only a little?” You pout and flutter your eyelashes.